


A Storm Breaking On the Horizon

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: A Summer in Cintra [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, once again calanthe's mouth gets her in trouble, otp being soft grandparents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23764864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: As Eist prepares to leave for Skellige, he decides to take one last trip to the river with his wife and granddaughter.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: A Summer in Cintra [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658368
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	A Storm Breaking On the Horizon

The sound of Calanthe of Cintra, bellowing like a raging bull, is generally not one that inspires delight.

However, Eist Tuirseach merely grins as he rounds the corner of the corridor, heading towards the fury, rather than away from it.

She’s taking a lord to task for inadequately expressing a situation in the his region—apparently the water has become tainted, the crops are dying and the stock isn’t faring too well, either. And apparently, to his great miscalculation, this lord thought to downplay the situation in previous correspondences.

He won’t make that mistake twice, Eist thinks. He merely leans against the corridor wall, waiting for her to finish. He’d hate to interrupt her flow. Besides, he rather enjoys listening to her roar and rage—at least when it’s not directed at him, anyways.

He feels a small measure of pity for the lord. After all, it isn’t entirely his fault—yes, Calanthe is frustrated, but half of her anger doesn’t stem from the actual situation at all.

Eist leaves today for Skellige—four days ahead of schedule, due to the urging of Crach, who as Jarl of Skellige manages the islands in his stead when he’s at Cintra. The unrest at Skelligen-controlled ports along the continental coast has grown, particularly in Metinna. The jarls and their tribesmen are getting restless, feeling it’s high time to remind the mainlanders just how mighty Skellige can be, just how lucky they are to have Skelligen ships protecting their harbors and coastlines.

Calanthe knows all this as well, because he’s let her read every missive he’s received from Crach. She knows the likelihood of the jarls voting for war, or at the very least sending a bevy of reinforcements to Metinna’s main harbor to make their point plainly.

And she knows that if there will be a battle, her husband will be leading the charge. It is his duty, as king. And mores o, part of his own moral code—he’d never send men into a battle that he wasn’t equally willing to die in.

She won’t beg him to stay—she’s not that kind of woman and she knows he’s the kind of man who needs to do this, and most importantly, she _does_ understand, better than anyone else. But she will still absolutely snap at everyone in her path, still be furious and frustrated that the situation exists in the first place.

Her love is as fierce as her anger, he knows. The louder she bellows, the more her heart is aching. He smiles and simply enjoys the sound.

Soon, the thoroughly chastised lord shuffles out into the corridor—being called to task in the queen’s private study only heightens just how serious the situation is, for she generally has no compunction about verbally flaying a wayward noble in front of the whole court. It’s almost a badge of honor, being able to survive a public humiliation with relative grace.

Eist waits a beat before entering.

She’s turned to the window, hands on her hips and shoulders set in a way that always just seethes with threat: _come after me, I dare you_.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Eist Tuirseach moves closer.

She stirs at the sound of his footsteps, shifting to glance over her shoulder. Her expression breaks, briefly, upon seeing him.

“Shouldn’t you be at the docks?”

He shrugs. “I have time. Besides, by now the men know what to do, without my input.”

She hums at that, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She wants a fight, he knows, because it will dispel the restless anxious energy bubbling in her veins—but she doesn’t want to fight with _him_ , doesn’t want to leave it on a sour note. He feels a surge of affection as he steps closer, lightly placing his hands on her upper arms and placing a kiss atop her head.

“You’ll send word,” she reminds him, though he suspects that it’s mainly for her own sense of reassurance.

“I will, as soon as the jarls make their vote.” He seals the promise with another soft kiss. She nods slightly, shifting under his lips. Her hand slips back, lightly clasping at his hip, as if seeking out reassurance that he’s still here, with her.

“And you won’t do anything foolish,” her voice gets harder, more of a command.

“Never, my queen.”

“Good. If anyone gets to kill you, it shall be me.”

He chuckles at that, wrapping his arms around her chest and pulling her back against him. Her hands come up, lightly trilling over his forearms.

In the interest of distracting her, he nuzzles further into her, whispering against her ear, “And how would you do that, my love?”

“Fuck you one last time, wait til you drift asleep, then place a pillow over your face whilst I slip a blade between your ribs, of course.” Her tone is flat and matter of fact, as if it’s the only natural choice. As if maybe she’s considered it before.

“There are worse ways to go,” he concedes easily, shrugging slightly with careless ease. She gives an amused hum of agreement. With another grin, he whispers, “Just promise me, you’ll sit atop me while you do it. I’d like to go, feeling your thighs around me one last time.”

She gives one single, sharp laugh at that.

There is a commotion in the hall. Like the sound of a small hurricane, blowing their way.

“Lie-na, Lie-na!” A familiar voice chirps out, tiny and adorable.

They both begin to grin. They turn expectantly to the doorway, waiting for their granddaughter’s appearance.

She does not disappoint. Still clad in her sleeping clothes, cheeks red and hair wild as she clutches a well-worn cloth rabbit, teetering unsteadily as she tries to round the corner.

She trips over air and smacks to the ground.

Behind him, Eist feels Calanthe’s entire body surge with tension and worry, but she still holds back, her hand merely clutching Eist’s arm.

Cirilla looks up at her grandfather, as if awaiting his reaction before deciding her own.

“Did you go boop?” He asks. He always refers to her falls and tumbles as such. It mitigates them, helps her feel as if they’re simply small things, no need for crying or wailing. And it works, most of the time.

“Boop,” she returns in a shaky voice. Then, once more with a wide smile, “Big boop!”

He laughs in agreement. Her nursemaid rounds the corner, by now quite well adjusted to the way the child falls without missing a beat. She helps Ciri back to her feet. Also by now, she knows better than to apologize to the king and queen for the interruption. If Calanthe’s door is open, then Cirilla is always welcome to walk through it.

Calanthe’s grip on his arm loosens. Ciri is alright, that’s all that matters.

Ciri adjusts her rabbit in her arms and resumes her breakneck speed. Calanthe moves to meet her, scooping her into her arms before the child can trip again. Ciri wriggles in her grasp, pulling herself up on Calanthe’s shoulder to look at Eist.

“Swim!” She commands.

He can’t help but laugh at her predictability. Normally she doesn’t start this early in the day, but almost daily now, she wants to visit the river—and almost daily, Calanthe agrees.

Calanthe turns fully towards him, her eyes lined with unspoken questions.

“The ship doesn’t leave until after noon, for this very reason,” he informs her.

She smiles, almost breathlessly.

Gods above, he’s going to miss this sight.

* * *

It’s nearly a feat in itself, getting Cirilla to eat breakfast before going to swim. But they manage it, and before too long (though the tiniest among them might disagree), they’re well on their way through the fields.

Calanthe isn’t wearing the embroidered dress she wore before. No, after breakfast she switched to a smock-like sleeveless dress that tied at the sides. Underneath are the leggings and linen shirt that she usually wears beneath the thicker, padded suit that goes beneath her armor.

Eist merely arches his brows at the choice, but his wife offers no explanation. Still, his intuition ripples.

His suspicion is confirmed once they reach the river. Eist gets down to his breeches and likewise Calanthe removes Ciri's outer layers until she’s in kecks and her linen undershirt. Once they’re both in the water, Calanthe removes her own smock and shoes.

She merely grins as she steps into the water, knowing her husband is slightly surprised by her actions. Normally she stays ashore when they bring Ciri along.

“Lie-na!” Ciri shrieks delightedly, immediately reaching for her so desperately that she nearly falls out of Eist's arms.

Calanthe's smile deepens and brightens. She looks like a goddess coming to bless her devotees, Eist thinks, with her glowing cheeks and warm smile and easy rolling hips that push out more waves with each step.

Once she gets closer to them, Calanthe sinks lower and pushes off against the rocks at the bottom, swimming closer. They’ve only had a few lessons together at this point, but he can already see how much stronger she is, how much more self-assured in her movements.

“Hello, there.” Her smile and her gaze may be for Ciri, but the warm, playful tone is for Eist.

Ciri launches herself at her beloved Lie-na, and Calanthe chuckles breathlessly at the attack, easily wrapping the child into a tight, squeezing embrace.

She rests her chin of Ciri's shoulder, simply looking at her husband with warm, dark eyes.

This time, her words are for Ciri but her gaze is for Eist as she quietly asks, “How are we going to manage our daily swims without your grandfather around, hmm?”

The longing in her voice, the _missing_ already aching in her eyes, the little smile she uses to soften the blow, to remove any hint of accusation or pleading—it all slays him, in mere seconds.

He swallows the lump in his throat and lets his fingertips trace her hairline, further down the curve of her cheek, all the way to her chin. “You’ll have to take very good care of each other, while I’m away.”

She blinks, nods, smiles again. Ciri is wriggling, so excited to have Lie-na in the water with her for the very first time. The toddler smacks her hand against the water as hard as she can, creating a small commotion of wave and splashing water. Calanthe scolds her, but it is completely negated by the fact that she’s tickling her granddaughter, holding her closer when she squirms and giggles.

Calanthe glances back over at her husband, and her heart catches in her throat. He’s watching them with such soft, quiet joy. And all she can think is: _This. I almost spent my entire life without this_.

For Calanthe, life seems to almost always be divided into only two outcomes: she has the best of luck, or the very worst of it.

She had a hellish time birthing Pavetta—the kind women dread, the kind most do not survive. And yet, she was blessed with the sweetest, quietest babe with the most transfixingly serious grey-green eyes. She spent hours just looking at the child, completely mystified at how she was able to create such minute perfection, those perfectly rounded, impossibly tiny fingernails, those rosebud lips and soft lashes. At the time, she had no idea that her blessing was no longer her own, traded on a whim by her husband.

But from that awful calamity came Cirilla. Not much like her mother, yet just as much a blessing.

That same calamity gave her Eist. That night, his nephew should have married her daughter, further cementing the line between them that could never be crossed. Instead, it ended with every barrier between them being completely removed (political and physical, she thinks with a wry grin).

She’s known happiness, many times in her life. Somehow, she’d never been fully acquainted with joy until that night. Happiness is fleeting—oh, how she has learned—but joy…joy remains even in darkness and sorrow, always a comfort, steadfast as the sun and the sea.

She could have been happy, without Eist. And she knows that Cirilla would still have provided her with so much love and joy as well. But she also knows, beyond all doubt, that her life has both in deeper abundance because of the man currently smiling sweetly at her.

 _Thank every star in the heaven for overruling my foolishness_ , she thinks, turning slightly to place a kiss on Ciri’s temple.

Eist thinks, not for the first time, that he would have enjoyed knowing Calanthe sooner, back when Pavetta was still a toddler. He would have loved seeing her as a mother—he sees so much of her quieter, kinder side with Cirilla, but it’s different, he knows—and even while he doesn’t regret the lack of children between them, he can still easily admit she makes a pretty picture, with her warm smiles and soft eyes.

Except now they’re muting into a different expression. The corner of her mouth hooks into a devilish grin as she dips her head closer to Ciri’s, whispering. Her eyes flick over to her husband, dark and dancing.

He’s in trouble. He knows it. He welcomes it with a grin.

Ciri turns around in her grandmother’s arms and begins kicking as if her life depends on it. Her chubby little legs producing a surprising amount of force, churning out huge splashes of water that drench Eist’s face, making him turn away slightly to escape the onslaught.

“Peace, peace, I sue for peace!” He holds up his hands in a sign of surrender.

Calanthe gives a bark of a laugh at that. “Ciri, tell him no—”

“No peach!” His traitorous granddaughter gleefully decrees, panting from the effort as she continues kicking like a child possessed.

Calanthe gives a low, triumphant chuckle.

Well, with no peace—and no peach, apparently—he has no choice, does he?

He dives beneath the water, easily putting distance between himself and the small squall of Ciri’s feet. He opens his eyes, quickly adjusting to the lower lighting to make out Calanthe’s legs. He moves closer, sees how they twitter in response—she can obviously still see him beneath the water, and she’s well aware of what he’s doing, even if she’s helpless against it.

He comes up for air and she’s already threatening him, “Eist, if you—”

Too late. He’s already hefting her up by her hips, pulling her and Ciri into his arms. Ciri screams in surprised delight and Calanthe gives a small shout of dismay.

“Eist!” She’s practically shrieking now, tightening her grip on Ciri. He hears the fear in her tone and knows it’s genuine.

“I’ve got you,” he reassures her. Still, he lets her slide down, back onto her own two feet. His right arms still stays firmly around her waist, his left hand steadying against Ciri’s back to keep her fully upright as she bobs and dips from the movement as well.

“Arse,” she whispers. Still, her head dips forward, lips almost instinctively seeking out his chest. She stops herself before making contact, but he grins knowingly. If they were alone, she’d nip him. Just a little warning nibble. It would absolutely devolve into something more.

But they’re not alone, and Eist doesn’t mind (too much).

“Arse!” Ciri repeats happily.

“Oh, shit,” Calanthe mutters, then cringes as she realizes what she’s done.

Eist bursts into laughter, which does nothing to help the situation.

Ciri perks up, realizing that somehow, she’s done something amusing. Never one to let go of a good joke, she chirps again, “Arse!”

Calanthe merely butts her head gently against Eist’s chest in frustration. He lets his right hand come up to play at the nape of her neck as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“She was going to hear it eventually,” he reminds her. “Words are words.”

“Tell that to her mother.”

“What’s she going to do? Forbid the Lioness of Cintra from seeing her granddaughter?”

He has a point, Calanthe realizes. Still, she and Pavetta are just getting to a new level of mutual understanding. She’s fearful of anything that could upset the delicate balance.

“Arse,” Ciri giggles again, waiting for her audience to join her in the merriment.

“That word is not for children, my sweet,” Calanthe informs her. Still, she’s smiling.

And while Ciri absolutely understands her grandmother, she merely frowns. With more emphasis, she repeats, “ _Arse_.”

It’s a challenge, if Eist has ever seen one. He bites his lip to keep from grinning. The Lioness will have her hands full with this one, that’s for certain.

“No.” Calanthe gives one curt shake of her head. The smile is gone.

“Yes. Arse.”

“ _No_.”

Ciri smacks the water in emphatic anger. Her little cheeks are going red and a tantrum is on the horizon.

Calanthe shifts Ciri to her left hip, leaving her right hand free to smack the water as well. Eist tries not to laugh. Well suited adversaries, these two.

Calanthe’s much bigger splash surprises Ciri, who grins in delight. The crisis is averted. Given Calanthe’s smug grin, Eist realizes that she planned on that exact reaction.

Yes, he does wish he could have seen her as a mother, when Pavetta was younger. Parenting is a bit like sailing the seas. One must be quick and ready to adjust with the winds, inventive and intuitive and brave beyond compare.

Still, this is more than consolation enough.

“Well done,” he intones lowly, arching an impressed brow.

She gives a slight lift of her shoulder, prim and all-knowing. “I have quite a few tricks up my sleeve, dear hound.”

“Oh, don’t I know.”

Now she’s grinning wickedly at his tone, at its implication, shaking her head slightly at his inappropriateness. She shifts Ciri to her other hip, and under the water, her left hand snakes around his hip and grabs his ass. He gets the message, loud and clear: _I’d still be more than happy to remind you_.

Briefly, he wonders if he could postpone his ship’s departure for a few extra hours.

His wife must sense some of his thoughts, because she merely grins. She arches her brows, a silent challenge that they both know he can’t accept, even though he wants to.

Instead, he lets his hand cup around her cheek, pulling her in for a kiss, hard but chaste. She hums and he can feel her smiling against his lips.

“Arse!” Ciri bellows happily, rocking backwards in her grandmother’s arms.

They break apart in giggles, Calanthe slightly moaning at her predicament.

Still, she tosses Ciri up, water flying everywhere as the toddler’s legs kick in delight.

“Trouble!” Calanthe declares, still grinning widely. “Thou art _trouble_ , Cirilla Riannon!”

Ciri giggles in agreement, smiling down happily at her. Eist’s chest is so tight with adoring affection, he has to force his lungs to breath again.

He wonders, briefly, if they will keep coming to the river, while he’s away. Hopes they will and hopes they won’t, in equal measure. Wants Calanthe to have this easy joy in her life and also jealously wants to be there to witness it.

Calanthe lowers Ciri back into the water, hands under her armpits to hold her steady as she encourages her granddaughter to kick and swim. Unsurprisingly, Cirilla is far more compliant for her grandmother, as her praise is a bit harder won.

Eist easily slips behind his wife, arms wrapping around her midsection to slowly pull her backwards through the water. Ciri gives a little breathless laugh as they all move together, Eist and Calanthe as a single unit as Ciri trails along behind, still firmly in her grandmother’s grasp. Her legs kick and splash, and she giggles delightedly at their overexaggerated cheers for her efforts.

He nuzzles a bit in Calanthe’s neck, burrowing a kiss into the fabric of her shirt. She tilts her head slightly, temple bumping against his forehead, returning his embrace as much as she can currently, with her arms outstretched and hands full of Ciri.

She turns her head a bit more, voice dipping into a low whisper as she closes her eyes and confesses, “I miss you already, dear hound.”

He tightens his hold around her, silently echoing the sentiment.

Then she’s turning back to Cirilla with a wide smile, encouraging her further. They lazily make their way down the river for several yards, Eist wishing against all hope that this moment, like the river, could go on forever.

All too soon, Ciri’s completely exhausted. Calanthe pulls her in closer, feeling a measure of quiet joy for the way Ciri’s little legs curl around her waist, head resting on Calanthe’s shoulder. She used to carry Pavetta like this, round and round her nursery floor, when she was small and had nightmares. Cirilla has reminded her how much she loved the simple sensation, how much she’d missed having Pavetta that small and trusting, without any complicated emotions swirling about.

Through it all, Calanthe is keenly aware of the sun rising in the sky, the steady onward pull of time. Eist is still a king, still a man who must not tax the goodwill of his people, and he still must go, despite all her wishing it not to be so.

By the time they reach the citadel, their clothes are practically dried from the heat. Cirilla is handed off to her nursemaid whilst Calanthe and Eist both change into more suitable fare. She doesn’t get all of her wishes come true, but she still gets held up against a wall in her chambers, still gets kissed soundly enough to leave her panting and breathless before the servants arrive to help her dress.

Eist leaves while she’s getting ready, but she knows the boat will stay a bit longer as they make final preparations. She’s able to reach the docks for one last proper—albeit too formal for either’s liking—farewell.

“Remember your promise,” she whispers hoarsely, almost urgently, her lips at the corner of his mouth. Her hand cups his jaw, fingers lightly curling against the stubble, as if relishing it, one last time.

“Aye.” He shifts slightly, as if almost nodding. With a wry grin, he steps back, taking both of her hands in his, “No one gets to kill me but you, my love.”

She pushes air out of her lungs in a heavy, almost chuckle. Her mouth hitches in her trademark, lopsided smirk.

He lets his thumbs brush over the ridges in her knuckles a few times, with such easy, aching slowness that she nearly melts straight into the wooden beams of the dock.

“I’ll send word,” he reminds her.

She nods, blinking quickly. He kisses her hand, eyes locked onto hers with such searing intensity that she knows not a single soul in any plane of existence could keep him from fulfilling his promise.

Then he’s gone, turning on his heel and lightly moving up the gangplank, as graceful as a cat. He was made to be on a ship, she knows—she’s never had any complaints about his body, to be sure, but there’s something unrivaled about the way he moves on the sea. A creature truly in its element.

The plank is pulled up and he bounds to the helm, quickly conversing with his first mate. She watches him, one hand on her stomach, one curled into a loose fist at her collar bone. He offers one last wave, one last dashing, devilish grin, and she knows that he’s putting on a brave face, for her.

She doesn’t move until the ship is nothing more than a speck on the horizon.

The world hustles and bustles around her, alive with sight and sound and heat, but she feels utterly alone.

She never likes seeing him leave. But something is stronger this time, something hollower between her lungs.

The river, she thinks. They’ve reached something new between them, during their trips to the river. Something that is lovely when he is here, and terrifying when he is not.

 _So this is love_ , she thinks, a bit numbly. She’s loved him before this, has been loved by him before this, she knows. But something has shifted. Something has become irrevocable.

As much as she doesn’t believe in destiny, she distinctly understands that from this point on, their fates are completely entwined. Because a world without Eist is no world at all.


End file.
